


A New Blend

by HenryMercury



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Family, Feels, Gen, Humor, Iroh II doesn't like tea, Tea, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iroh II has been living with a secret. It scalds inside him, corroding his strength, casting doubt upon his honour.<br/>At every occasion family, friends and strangers ply him with tea—and at every occasion he thanks them politely, toasts his namesake and drinks it down. </p>
<p>He does not know how to tell them that he doesn't like tea at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Blend

Iroh is raised as the second of his name. Iroh is raised on stories of his great granduncle, and the virtues of patience, trust, unquestionable honour. Iroh is raised on the knowledge that peace is a most inviolable priority. And he is raised on tea.

He does not remember the first time he tried it, but he remembers the day it struck him that neither the taste nor the texture were as wondrous in his mouth as they seemed to be in the mouths of his parents, his grandfather. Everyone around him would compliment the different flavours they felt were at work in the cup—the floral or nutty or smoky overtones—but all Iroh could ever taste was hot leaf juice.

He had considered confessing this to his grandfather, with whom he had been taking tea at the time of the realisation, but then Zuko had launched into one of his many stories—a tale of himself and his uncle during their days undercover in Ba Sing Se.

_—Uncle, that's what all tea is!_

_—How could a member of my own family say something so horrible?_

Iroh had held his tongue that afternoon, too afraid to criticise what seemed to be the elixir of wisdom flowing through all his grandfather's tales of redemption and honour. Perhaps, he had thought to himself hopefully, it was not too late to acquire an appreciation for it. Perhaps one day he would sip his tea and taste all the rapturous things in it that his family did. Perhaps he would even live up to his namesake's abiding love for the beverage.

At every special occasion, Iroh receives gifts: teapots, cups, special and exotic varieties. Things of great monetary value; things that have clearly been handmade over the course of many painstaking hours; things chosen in remembrance of lies he has told about preferences for certain blends. These items pile up in his cupboards, and he worries that it must be painfully obvious that they are not being used. Quietly, he gives the expensive, rare gifts away to poor folk he meets on the street. Their gratefulness tempers his shame to at least some extent. 

He grows older, drinks more tea than plain water, and never learns to like it. He grows old enough that he gives up hope of ever changing. He begins to wonder once again how to tell this truth, but now the disappointment of it is compounded by years of dishonesty. Surely it would be easier, he concludes every time he debates making the confession, just to drink the next cup of hot leaf juice. He's done it a million times before. It won't kill him just to continue the charade, to leave everything as it is, as it should be.

At every occasion family, friends and strangers ply him with tea—and at every occasion he thanks them politely, toasts his namesake and drinks it down. The words that could carry the truth out into the air between him and everyone he cares about are simple, but the saying of them is far too difficult to be attempted.

Iroh is promoted quickly within the United Forces. All forms of fighting, politics, military strategy, and rigid discipline are far easier than telling his parents and grandfather that he hates their favourite drink, the original Iroh's favourite thing.

_Hate_. Hate is not something he should ever have allowed to grow within himself, not something he has ever wanted to feel, and yet it is the right word. With every fresh cup that has been placed in front of him, indifference has turned to dislike; dislike to hatred. And hatred, he thinks as he chokes down a strongly brewed, heavily spiced tea made for him by President Raiko, is morphing into something else, something that might be better characterised as desperation. Whatever it is, it feels like it has a snapping point. A cliff-face that Iroh will be thrown off if he doesn't manage to change his direction.

When Avatar Korra opens a new spirit portal right in the heart of Republic City and then promptly declares she will be taking a vacation there, Iroh decides to follow suit. He's always wanted to visit the spirit world, and he's not the only one jumping on the bandwagon now—luckily the place is more than vast enough to accommodate all the new holiday-makers.

He packs a bag, leaving all his tea leaves, pots and cups behind, and ventures into the light.

 

It's by sheer, dumb luck that he runs into the old man. Or maybe it isn't. Iroh can't distinguish the one from the other when it comes to spirit magic. But however it happens, it does.

Iroh the first is humming, brewing tea, admiring some supernaturally bright wildflowers when Iroh comes across him. He knows his face instantly from the many portraits around the palace, although his voice is somehow not what he had expected.

"Hello," he says, suddenly tongue-tied and awkward. "Are you Iroh?"

"I am," comes the jolly answer. "And I think I may know who you are. Your eyes, your voice... you can only be descended from my nephew."

Iroh nods. "Zuko is my grandfather," he confirms. "My name is Iroh. It's an honour to—"

He is enveloped in a hug before he knows what's happening. The old man is short and rotund, and his arms tighten around Iroh's waist. He looks down upon a bald, shiny pate.

"The honour is mine," the elder Iroh insists. "I was just making some tea—please, join me. I would love nothing more than to get to know you."

Tea. Iroh could almost cry, but this is his namesake, his great granduncle, a figure of legend to his family and to the world. He doesn't want to turn down any invitation from this man. He has suffered through worse cups of tea for far less significant reasons.

He thanks the old man, who finishes preparing his brew. They sit with the tea steaming between them and begin to break the ice with small exchanges of information. There's always been so much Iroh has wanted to know about his ancestor, and the curiosity goes both ways.

Iroh the elder sips his tea, but Iroh the younger leaves his for as long as he can under the pretence of being too absorbed in the conversation. Of course, this can't go unnoticed forever.

"You haven't touched your tea yet! Better not let it go cold."

He laughs, picks up the cup and bends a small flame underneath it as a reply. A perk of entering the spirit world physically, rather than by meditation. Now that he is being scrutinised, Iroh brings the cup to his lips and takes a convincing sip.

He has so many years of experience— _relentless_ experience—at pretending to enjoy tea that Iroh is honestly not expecting the doubt that appears instantly on his namesake's face.

"How do you like it?" the old man enquires.

"It's very good," Iroh says, sliding slightly around the question. He's sure that the tea _is_ , objectively, very good tea. He's sure that someone who enjoyed tea would find it pleasing. He doesn't like the idea of lying to this man, this wise and virtuous figure he has looked up to since birth.

He takes another sip. The old man's doubt condenses between his eyebrows, a heavy frown. Iroh's heart sinks in his chest. He feels like a young boy again, trying desperately to enjoy a flavour that just didn't match with his tastes, a drink that was supposed to connect him with his predecessor. Seeing the frown pull extra creases in the old man's forehead is like watching that connection crumple before his eyes.

Then the frown disappears. Instead of firing off an accusation, the elder Iroh asks,

"Do you know what my favouritetea of all is, my great grandnephew?"

"Ginseng, isn't it?" That was what Zuko had said.

Iroh smiles—a little sadly, the younger Iroh thinks. He's ready with a response to the question of his own favourite tea, but that question isn't put to him.

"Ginseng is a truly wonderful tea. But the very best tea of all is not made so special by any ingredient in its blend," Iroh says with the tone of a teacher, the words long and slow on his patient tongue. "The best tea is special because it is shared with a loved one."

He reaches out to pick up the pot. His great granduncle's cup, Iroh notes, has already been refilled. It is his own cup that is partially empty. He resigns himself to a top-up.

But great granduncle Iroh does not pour him a refill. Instead, he lifts the lid off the teapot and tips it upside down so that its contents rush out onto the dirt.

Iroh watches on with wide eyes. The action is so utterly against everything he has ever been taught about the man sitting opposite him that his world feels suddenly unstable.

"I know, it is a great shame," Iroh says solemnly, looking down at the muddy tea puddle, "But what is more important than that tea is what I am about to tell you. I wanted to demonstrate exactly how much I mean it. Are you ready to believe me?"

Iroh nods, though he can't really know the answer until he's heard what it is he's to believe.

"Tea is not among the things that matter most in life. Not even to me. Good company is worth more than all the finest teas in the world. Love is worth more. Honour is worth more. And being true to yourself is worth more. I am happier sitting here with you—my great grandnephew, as wonderful a young man as I have ever met—than I could ever be in an endless store of all the tastiest teas in the world."

Iroh nods again, this time muted by the shaking of his lip and the stinging of his eyes.

"One of the things I enjoy so much about tea is its variety," the old man continues, and Iroh listens, blinking hard as he does so. "Each blend is different. Even each cup is brewed a little differently. People, I have found, are much the same as tea in this way. A good strong cup of ginger tea is altogether different from lychee tea, white dragon, or jasmine. The fact that it is different does not make it better or worse.

"What I always tried to teach my nephew was that a man must find his own path in life. If white dragon tried to become sweet and fruity just like lychee tea, then the world would miss out on the white dragon's true—and delicious—nature. Just like the white dragon tea, no man should try and become something he is not; there is too much value in the things he already is. I am sorry if Zuko has not quite relayed this message to you, young one."

Iroh thinks back to the many stories he has been told over the years. Suddenly their focus is different. Suddenly it seems foolish to have really thought they were about hot leaf juice.

"I—" he begins, clears his throat, begins again, "I think I was distracted from that message. I was worried about what people would think. How much I'd disappoint them."

The elder Iroh laughs, a full-bellied chuckle that makes the younger Iroh want to join in, even though he seems to be the one being laughed at.

"I'm sorry, great grandnephew. It's just that for a moment you reminded me so much of my nephew. Always so concerned about what people think. Even the tiniest things became mountains in his mind—even when there were _real_ mountains to be scaled.

"I can tell you this: if your family cannot love you for disliking a certain type of refreshment, then they are not the family I thought I left behind in the world."

The comparison with his grandfather's struggles makes Iroh's own problem seem even more ridiculous—and yet the taste of tea still lingers on his tongue, still sticks all papery in his throat, driving him slowly mad.

"Perhaps some food would help you digest this information," the old man suggests kindly.

Iroh's gut swirls with anxiety, but even past the vague nausea he _is_ a little hungry. Something to chew on would be a nice distraction.

"Do you like egg custard tarts, great grandnephew?"

Iroh loves egg custard tarts.

"That's what I like to hear! Sadly I do not have any egg custard tarts here in the spirit world. Perhaps you could bring some the next time you visit me?"

"I'll bring a whole crate of them."

The elder Iroh grins. "Wonderful. Now, pass me what's left of your tea, Iroh, my boy. I would very much like to finish it for you."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also henrymercury on [tumblr](http://henrymercury.tumblr.com/); come talk to me!


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